


Manchester of the 19th Century: A Humble Synopsis of the Human Condition & the  development of the working woman

by pidgit_spinner



Category: SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon)
Genre: 2nd Person, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal, Don’t read this, Fluff, Gen, Great Depression, M/M, Manchester, Mild Smut, Prostitution, Shameless Smut, Sick Fic, Smut, Spongebob - Freeform, Sugar Daddy, allergy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pidgit_spinner/pseuds/pidgit_spinner
Summary: It’s the mid-1800 in Industrial Manchester. You’re penniless, you’re spirit broken. Childhood dreams of luxury and vivacity in distant Paris resound hollowly... all until Monsuer Krabs asks for your services.





	Manchester of the 19th Century: A Humble Synopsis of the Human Condition & the  development of the working woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abby/gifts).



It’s the mid-1800 in Industrial Manchester. You’re penniless, you’re spirit broken. Childhood dreams of luxury and vivacity in distant Paris resound hollowly like the toll funeral bells. Having been thrown to the streets by the passing of the deleterious Poor and Combination acts of parliament, you have reluctantly turned to prostitution as a means to put any sort of food on the table. You had heard rumors of emaciated bodies turned up at roadsides between France and distant Prussia, stomachs containing naught but dandelion stems.

You take a deep breath of the frosted air to clear you mind. Even this deplorable station is far preferable to that of the disreputable work houses. 

Your first client of the night is a rather distinguished member of the landed elite, Monsieur Krabs, a wealthy entrepreneur of a successful import chain situated along the embankment of the roaring Thames to the South in London. Specializing in the Articles of Paris and colonial trade, His Lordships’ investment had soon grown to a sizable scale, earning an even more sizable share in net profit. 

You had heard tell that Sir Krabs was supposedly in Manchester on holiday for the Christmas season with family, but it would seem the Lord had other, less savory preoccupations this night. 

Making your way down the winding labyrinth of Manchester side-streets, you begin to feel the cold of cobblestone seeping into the bared flesh of your feet, your breath pluming in a white fog in the frigid air far above. Hopping a small waste runnel, you finally arrive at the preordained rendezvous. You pull your threadbare wrap right against your skeletal shoulders with pale and trembling fingers as you gaze up at the amass structure before you. 

The Hatters Hostel Inn was a solid structure build of heavy timbers brought by rail from central Russia. Having been build decades earlier by a well-off noble, Hatters Hostel boasted all of the luxuries the common era could provide: glass windows, a functioning water system, gas light fixtures, privy, the list goes on. It’s was no surprise to you that the Monsieur was not a man to deprive himself of affluence.

Swinging open the heavy wooden door, you are hit with a staggering wave of heat, the abruptness of which caused you extremities to burn and prickle. Making your way up the steps to the Lords’ room, your apprehension at the task to come is almost completely momentarily eclipsed by your ravenous hunger. The delightful smells of foods, extravagant and rich in meats and broths and foreign spices, elite a frenzy of desire in your combined senses, sending stabbing pangs through your gut.

Sweat runs freely in rivulets down the panes of your back despite the innate and immobilizing cold of only minutes before, soaking the thin cotton fabric of your simple work dress. You hurriedly swipe at your brow with a sleeve and shakily open the door of the Master’s room. 

A large, red-faced man stands looking out a large window into the frozen street below, his back to you. A merry fire leaps in the grate, crackling violently and sending glowing sparks spiraling lazily into the thick air. The man turn slightly at the sound of the door, scanning your thin frame over his broad shoulder. A cocksure smirk cracks his plump face. 

“Ahoy, Spongeboy! It appears I need me dick sucked!” 

The man purred, voice dissolving into strange lilting laughter. Managing to manipulate you grimace into a small smile, you dutifully drop to your knees before the massive tycoon, and slowly undo his copper belt buckle 

——————

It’s has been literal goddamned hours. Your knees ache, your thighs scream in protest, and you back must be on the verge of fracture - but finally the old fucker finishes with a strangled moan, claw like fingers fisting in your mahogany locks. 

You flex your sore jaw and begin to pull off, but something is catastrophically wrong. You gasp raggedly for breath, hand going up to scrabble at your throat. You eyes begin to water and cloud, you slam you fist violently against the plank flooring. Your chest heaves, and you begin coughing up pools of thick saliva globs of yellowish mucus. Your arms give out, no longer able to support your weight due to oxygen deprivation. Tendons strain harshly in your neck, your fingers come away from you mouth coated in thick arterial blood. 

You curl in on yourself, pulling you knees to you chest. I frozen hand grasps your face in an iron grip, forcing your unfocused eyes to meet another piecing pair.

“Shellfish allergy aye m’ boy?”

The Lord says, releasing your chin to allow you limp body to slam forcefully back into the wooden floor below. Black begins to encroach upon the edges of your vision, you make several more futile attempts to sit upright. You vomit and are unable to remove yourself from your own mess - though it is only bile.

In your final moments of delirium, in the space between life and death, you swear you can hear a choir of children chanting your name. Over and over, pounding upon your mind. But...you do not live in a pineapple under the sea...what preposterous tales of the new world never seen...


End file.
